That’s an arrogant title isn’t it? Let me explain, gentle reader. I don’t think I’ve achieved such mastery. Far from it. If complete mastery of the English language is Everest, I’m about to make an assault on base camp with nothing but a spare pair of trainers, a multipack of salt and vinegar crisps and an extra t-shirt for provisions.

All the same though: as I consider writing another book for the first time in over ten years, I find myself wondering why I’m not further along. If Malcolm Gladwell’s thesis that 10,000 hours of practice makes perfect, then I should be Oscar Wilde by now, on the basis that both my day job (lawyer) and main pastime (writer) have, for the better part of four decades, involved putting words together in a meaningful order. ‘Always scribble, scribble, eh?’ as Prince Albert once said to Charles Dickens.

Well, I’m not Oscar Wilde. Robert Louis Stevenson can rest easy in his grave in the South Seas. Kazuo Ishiguro and his pals needn’t commission a hitman to take me out to lessen the competition for the next Booker. But it did get me thinking. What would it be like to achieve complete mastery of this lumbering mongrel tongue of ours?

I don’t just mean to write the next Booker Prize winner. I mean to be able to draft a contract so watertight you could cross the Atlantic in it; and at the same time, be able to express, in exactly the right words, how you felt about something important to your nearest and dearest. The magic words that work in any given situation: forget pulling rabbits out of hats and think about that long history of spells and incantations that supposedly alter the material world for you. Well, maybe they don’t exist, but…

But what if they did? What if there was that perfect chord, that ideal combination of words for a given situation that would unlock the outcome you want, whether that be a successful negotiation, an emotional unburdening to your other half, or even telling an AI assistant what you want on a power utility website (the latter two are also, of course, a successful negotiation).

When the words are to be spoken out loud there’s the added complication of the performance. Tone of voice, demeanour, even accent will play a part. Luckily for me, I have what is laughingly called an ‘educated’ Scots accent, which is consistently used by advertisers because other folk consider it trustworthy, especially on financial matters (no, I’ve no idea either).

However, for the moment, let’s stick with the basics. So what have I learned about stringing words together in a meaningful sequence in my past 60-odd years?

Some of what I’ve learned goes into a course I may have mentioned before on this blog. It’s a webinar run by CLT from time to time, where I try to teach lawyers how to write clearly and effectively. Much of it is me balancing on the shoulders of giants: my spiel about using the Anglo-Saxon derived word (shorter, pithier, easily understood) rather than the Norman French or Latin derived alternative (longer, posher, when used in combination makes sentences impenetrable) is from Melvyn Bragg’s The Adventure of English and quotes examples from towering figures like Winston Churchill and Nicola Sturgeon. I also get them to write a haiku, but that’s mainly just to mess with their heads.

Others you can garner from any number of how to websites on writing: the blank page is your enemy, so get something – anything – down; put things away in a drawer for as long as you can, as it’ll give you a fresh perspective; murder your darlings, prose-wise.

Recently, though, I’ve been thinking about some other aspects of writing, and, specifically, how time and age-reliant some uses of language can be.

I received the benefit, if that’s not too strong a word, of a 1960s and 70s Scottish state education. For better or worse – and I want to stress that none of this is an attempt to say any of it was better,  just different – that curriculum, and the wider culture, gave us a set of linguistic reference points that are no longer a given, and arguably no longer relevant.

It wasn’t so unusual, for example, for me to read the King James Bible end to end, even in a non-religious family. It didn’t convert me to organised religion, but it did make me realise how the Bible, like Shakespeare, is full of cliches: expressions like the writing being on the wall, reaping what you sow, casting pearls before swine, by the skin of your teeth, even eating, drinking and being merry all have origins in the Good Book. Shakespeare gives us many more, including green-eyed monster, break the ice, and wild goose chase, to give just three examples.

Going back to Latin, well, that was a subject I could study to Higher at my run of the mill state school back then, and with it gain not just a good grounding for various modern languages, and an appreciation of the derivation and context of half of our own tongue, but, I would argue, a whole host of reference points for our culture: the British Empire modelled itself very closely on the Roman play book, and classical culture infuses ours to this day. Then, at university, I did Roman Law to Honours level (Edinburgh Uni calls it Civil Law for reasons that are almost lost to history).

My point in all of this is not to blow about my education, or suggest that the fact I had that brief sheep-dip into a classical education makes me any better, or worse, than anyone else. My point, if I have one, is that, back then, it was possible for some kid from the provinces to gain that extra understanding of the meaning and derivation of words that it brings. It wasn’t just the preserve of posh public school types that went to Oxbridge.

Nowadays, you would have to be a kid much less mainstream than I was to make the effort to read the Bible, and if you did, you’d probably be given the modern English version. I suspect Shakespeare is taught less and less in state schools – and let’s face it, not much of it seems terribly relevant to you when you’re a hormonally challenged fourteen or fifteen year old, unless you have a truly inspirational teacher. Even modern languages are struggling as  a subject choice in schools these days, and it’s an unusual state school that keeps Latin on the curriculum.

As I’ve said already, none of that is meant to sound like ‘things were better in my day.’ Things were different in my day, and things have been different in terms of education for a long time now. Arguably it’s just as important to know the immigrant language influences on modern London street speech as it is to be able to parse a Hamlet soliloquy.

New words are entering common useage every year – as this fascinating article from the OED makes clear. You can ignore it and continue to write the way you did forty or fifty years ago, or you can move with the times – or at least make some attempt to keep up. You don’t have to succumb to brain rot, as the youth and, apparently, Henry David Thoreau, would say.

What does mean all this mean? Well, one way of looking at it is that some linguistic reference points are no longer held commonly, whereas they once were. That, if you do use a  phrase like ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone’ you could be referencing Joni Mitchell’s 1970 song ‘Big Yellow Taxi.’ Alternatively, you could have in mind hair-metal band Cinderella’s 1988 hit of the same name.

Some do say, though, that Cicero said it best.

P.S. My take on Pachelbel’s Canon has some fun with language – here’s a work in progress version.